the word admits truth
and the feeling confirms its ruin
of the world i know. trees spar
wind, birds cross tapestry;
the old moon's wane hesitates,
the bilious lark does not
heed what i know of the world
and our entrails speaking
a hint of such sorry recall—
something a memory gives back,
lighting a beacon, passing a mortal flame
into my hands, the heliotrope,
haplessly flapping its wings now
unpinned crooning a voice
of the world – twilight in one song.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
the word admits truth
and the feeling confirms its ruin
of the world i know. trees spar
wind, birds cross tapestry;
the old moon's wane hesitates,
the bilious lark does not
heed what i know of the world
and our entrails speaking
a hint of such sorry recall—
something a memory gives back,
lighting a beacon, passing a mortal flame
into my hands, the heliotrope,
haplessly flapping its wings now
unpinned crooning a voice
of the world – twilight in one song.
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